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Sweet Seals For You, Always
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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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@footnotestohappiness
1. Her eyes fixated on dilated moon, somber solstice of her schizophrenic heart. She rose into the night, her shadow wrapped around our voices. Carrying the adoration of a thousand lonely souls.
2. I expire in your quiet. Mascara moths that quiver in the darkness. Mornings memorized in sleep. You temporarily suspend my disbelief, to dwell in secondary delusions, the unreality shrouded behind unreality, a deception less cruel than the one I had learned to accept.
Straining falsetto-fringe. You adopt infinity in harmonic folds. In the quiver of cadence. In the silence of summer solstice silhouettes. You tapestry tail-end of. Tidal-weaving warmth of our fastening.
The lay-me-downs in narco-nest (naked in nicotine night). You(we) are alone again. ((Cocooned)). Sand-castled in caverns. Cove of cosmic comatose. Flash-flooded Dallas interstates. Lamplight outline of shadowling longings.
Leaves ensemble in funnel-fog. The anatomy of its awakening. We withhold: in fairy-folds, thrice-creased caterpillar cries. You blushed in your sleep. Dream of a single eyelash in a tornado. You are tempted. To linger in Shadow. To stay the sonnets whose musicality renders mute your love. To wither waitings whose silence you plucked. That smallness of memory. Cemetery of violins. To crescendo the countless beginnings.
Beautification of Emptiness
You place a rock on my ribcage. I no longer perceive in fractals. This, over coffee at 4am as you paint anatomically disproportionate renderings of what you perceive to be as alien-forms. What do you think?, you ask, more to yourself than to me. I give a half-ass, boring academic response that attempts to place your outsider aesthetic within a greater art-historical context. You light a cigarette and continue painting as if I hadn’t spoken at all. What’s Cubism?, you ask after some time has passed. I love that you don’t know this. It’s not important, I say, as I walk over to where you are and sit next to you. I gently rest my head on your shoulder, careful not to disrupt your creative process. Your aliens look fucking bad ass, I say, and that’s all that matters.
You palm meteor, measure stardust with your long nails. In fields of diamond cornrows and manicured constellations, we unwind rose petals and lay down to sleep.
Augmented by the untuned velocity of her breathing, perfumed passings of wind forced from tar-stained lungs (the topographical blotches of a dialect burned at the seams and then reconstructed via said ashen remnants into song).
The shivering sleep of a body shedding its shell. This is the skin that we leave. The skin we refuse. The unoccupied shape of a former self. Where the act of remembering leads to dead-end dawns of mile-long mist, cul-de-sacs that circle back to the end of beginnings we have lived through in that perpetual state of inevitable dread and acceptance.
We will continue till we reach that knowing. That knowing that is closest to nothing, the accumulation of conclusions crossed out in the unending mental inventory of meanings that in eventuality will make light the weight of our wantings. Wantings whose digressions have detoured day into the shadows of time-zones where we were promised to find the elusive sleep that lasts more than a mere exhaustive blink.
Time talks in its sleep. Just a small amount of death. We measure three-quarters of night, pour into dawn’s yawning. There is a weather that never ends. Tornadoes in coffee cups. Transmigration of horizontal rain.
You nod into fever-song, chapped lips wilting lilac lullabies. Just another spoonful of dying. Breath vacuum-sealed in mason jars. Chemicals of constellations, voice veiled in meteor mist. (Black hole hands peeling words from your breath).
There was something that your mother once said. Something about geometry and jealousy. Push-pin holes in stucco walls. Syringe-size secrets filled with holy water and heroin. A bathtub filled with endings. You never did tell me how you folded eternity into the span of two years.
The mirror that consumed, upon her third reflection, the multiplication of imperfect shadow, the auditory insignia of polished silver.
In guest room we ghost for familiar beginnings, the transience of the tangible carefully rationed against her breathing. We were once promised the allowance of eternity.
It was effortless, the way we hovered over the margins of the impossible, the cosmic sound of our being seamlessly interweaving into a greater melody. Yet within the imperceptible microcosm that exists in the transience of that shared reality, there is no mind capable of rendering the multitude of components in all its complexity. And hence we must live with this incomplete version of ourselves and our memory, the amputation of human experience forever diluting the present. We are our own abridged adaptation of a perpetual imperfection—unable to attain even a fraction of a feeling whose untempered purity had once projected its incandescence before us as an ensemble of constellations that guided our floating-lantern futures.
We have built within this labyrinth a counter-labyrinth of denial, the simplicity of misunderstanding transposed into complexity.
Obscured post-panoramics disassembled, short-sighted into the self-surveillance of monochromatic personifications. The angle from which unlooking reveals, the closed eyelids of a former lover in sleep. In dreams whose apparition excludes the one whose proximity is defined by the paradoxical manifestation of its antithesis. (For the being that is in love only finds that he is closest to himself and no one else). Fictitious notions of reality magnified by carefully choreographed emotional pantomimes, bred of collective narratives mistakenly construed as a declaration of contingency. Of which in waiting we have lost, an unencumbered vision of the experiential range of near-objective truth. The tangible perplexity of now. (To simply be).
Song hibernates just beneath her collarbone, the cold that robs her of voice. Somewhere: in the driveway of an acquaintance, suburban silence trickles down into melted snow. Frozen hieroglyphs of two-day-old tire marks. We argue the meaning of lost civilizations, the ruins of intimacy awakening dreamy-eyed notes as they fumble towards song, once again.
Press release for Vector Persona's EP! This will be the second release for Oddeo Netwerx's record label. Click on the link to read and listen to Vector Persona's tracks!
Its been a blast working with my old buddies from Oddeo Netwerx to help design the cover art for their first LP release on their new record label. This first LP is by Robots Dream of Love (RDoL), and is described as "a peaceful aquatic downtempo/ambient journey that grows darker as the album travels deeper." Check it out on their website!!
http://oddeonetwerx.com/